


Premarital Stress

by smallvictory



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Domesticity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 19:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallvictory/pseuds/smallvictory
Summary: mike is stressed about his impending wedding, and fucks things up.





	1. Chapter 1

_What kinda silverware are we gonna have at the wedding?_

_You have silverware at a wedding, right?_

_Well, duh, people have to eat...oh, jeez, what are we gonna do about food?!_

Mike tried to see his reflection in the back of a spoon, hoping that looking at his goofy, distorted face might help to take his mind away from worrying about the wedding, which was still a whole six months away. That felt like so much and so little time all at once.

It was just...he couldn't stop thinking about it. He switched topics in his head as he took a plate with a floral design out of the dishwasher, wondering if Mick would want flowers at the ceremony. _I don't know anything about flowers_ , he thought, shelving the dish. _Who would even be the flower girl? Bungle?_

The thought of B throwing flowers down the aisle made him chuckle, at least. He could see them so clearly, ecstatic to prance along and whip handfuls of daisies, or whatever flower you used at a wedding, at the rows of people there to see Mike Barzetti and Mick Macguinness get married. There was the yogi, and some of Mick's old kink buddies, and Mitch and Allan, who had even brought along the guys he worked with—Bill was sniffling—and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were there, and Stubb even had a seat, and...there were three emoty chairs. The imaginary flower girl Bungle tossed a handful of imaginary flowers at the little nameplates on them: _Sandra Nylund, Mika Barzetti, Robert Barzetti_.

Mike's fantasy shattered with the sound of glass breaking into a dozen pieces on the tile. He realized, staring and blinking dumbly at the ruins of what used to be a mug on the kitchen floor, that he had been so caught up in daydreaming that he must have been autopiloting the dishes and missed the shelf on this one, like an idiot. He should have been paying attention—

"You good out here, babe?" Mick entered the kitchen from the hall. "Sounded like something broke."

"I dropped a mug," Mike said hurriedly, moving quickly to crouch and look like he had already been picking up the mess. "I was spacing out, sorry...I got it, like, you have shit to do, I can—ow, fuck." He suckled the ooze of blood from his fingertip, sliced open in the scramble to clean up the shards of mug, while he carried them all to the trash in a heap cradled by the bottom of his t-shirt.

Mick's hand, broad and firm, touched too gingerly to his shoulder to warrant jumping, but Mike did anyway, almost missing the can and making an idiot of himself again as he dropped the broken glass in.

"Lemme see that," Mick said, taking Mike's hand to inspect the cut, and Mike couldn't tell whether or not he sounded annoyed. He was imagining things, probably. "...You sure you're doin' okay, babe?"

Logically, Mike knew he wasn't annoyed; it didn't make sense for him to wipe the blood on his own shirt— _Oh, great, he likes that shirt and I just got blood on it_ —and pull him into an embrace if he thought of him as a nuisance. Mick wouldn't be smiling and brushing back messy stray hairs on Mike's head if he didn't love him.

But Mike had annoyed people who loved him before. They loved him less when they got tired of his shit. And there was always shit, wasn't there? How many space-outs and broken dishes could Mick tolerate until he got sick of his shit, too?

Fuck, he was even doing it _right now_ , spacing out while he worried so much about spacing out that he didn't even know how long he'd been staring vacantly over Mick's shoulder at nothing in particular. His eyes unglazed themselves and the other man's face came back into view. His expression had changed to tight-browed concern. "Mike?"

"Yeah," he said, too forcefully, pulling away from the arms around his waist. "I'm good, dude. It's all good."

Mick looked like someone had just taken his ice cream cone from his hands. "You're _sure_?" he asked.

Mike busied himself with the dishes again just to keep from throwing his body back into that embrace and apologizing for something and making a bigger ass of himself than he already had. "I was just thinking about stuff, y'know?" Plates clattered over the sound of his voice. "Like, wedding stuff. I don't know. I'm fine, though."

"Oh, man, I feel ya," Mick laughed, speaking to his back. "I can't stop thinkin' about it, either. I was actually just looking at suits online before I came in here. I've never worn a suit in my life!"

When he turned to put a fistful of forks in the silverware drawer, Mick caught a glimpse of Mike's smile, but he wasn't laughing. "If something's bugging you, we can talk about it," he tried.

"Nothing's bugging me!" Mike said, trying to sound lighthearted but sure that it came out too harshly. "Seriously, dude, I was just thinking, is all. Everything is cool."

Closing the dishwasher, he was met with a skeptical look from Mick, but he didn't press the issue any further. "I'm gonna go do some work on the site, then," he said, "If you're sure you're okay."

Mike nodded, receiving a kiss and dismissing himself to go clean the bathroom.

The rest of the night was uneventful, which was Mick's second clue(the first being how awful he was at hiding it)that something was bothering his fiance. Mick finished his work, Mike finished cleaning—that didn't take him long, considering the house was already spotless from the cleaning he had just given it yesterday—dinner was cooked and eaten, and, weirdest of all, they got ready for bed. _Just_ ready for bed. Mike even kept his hands to himself in the shower, smiling serenely when Mick pressed a kiss into the back of his neck but otherwise washing himself quickly and quietly like he wanted to get it over with.

At least he still wanted to cuddle in bed. Mick tried to disguise a sigh of relief as one of comfort when he settled his head against the older man's bare chest. They could have fallen asleep like that, had Mick not started thinking.

_He's doing this because he thinks he has to, isn't he?_

Mick was kind of backed into a corner, here. Something had Mike fucked up, he was sure of it, but he knew that asking him about it was dangerous; he was liable to clam himself up even tighter if he had to confront his emotions. That was something Mick knew well enough to drive him crazy, because it had, many times, sometimes to the point that Mick wondered if being in Mike's life was doing the kid more harm than good, if all he ever did for him was make him have emotional meltdowns.

But it was worse to just leave him alone and let his mind torture him, right?

"Alright, babe, you're killin' me," he finally said.

Mike snorted back to attention, already having been dozing off. "Huh?"

"You have to tell me what's goin' on with you tonight." They were sitting up, Mick stroking his palms down Mike's arms, keeping his voice soft, like he was approaching a skittish dog that might bite.

Mike blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

It would have been easier to pull his own teeth than to get this boy to admit that anything was wrong. Mick braced himself for the struggle. "You've been weird, like, all day, dude."

"No, I haven't," Mike said bluntly.

"Babe."

" _What_?"

Oof. "Please?"

"I already said I'm fine." Mike turned out of Mick's touch to punctuate the curt statement.

Ugh. Mick wanted to just...grab him and...do _something_ to help him. "You don't have to lie to me," he said, realizing too late that he might have worded that badly, and Mike was already trying to get away from him, looking almost comical with his limbs flailing and his boxers bunched up as he rolled off of the mattress.

"I'm not _lying_ , okay?" He stood at the foot of the bed with a pout that barely contained the absolute hellstorm that Mick knew was churning and brewing inside his head. "I'm...I don't wanna talk about it." The end of the mattress sagged as he sat, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"But I wanna hear about it," Mick tried, scooting down to join him, wanting so badly to touch him but allowing him his space. He dared not speak louder than a hushed murmur.

"I don't _have_ to tell you anything," Mike snapped back. He was on his feet again, but didn't go anywhere, instead just standing tensely with his arms crossed and his back to his fiance.

Well...he was right, technically, but what the fuck? "I mean, no, you don't have to," Mick sputtered, "But I'd like it if you did. I want to listen to you."

Whirling around, Mike nearly elbowed him in the face. "Why?" he demanded.

"Because I love you."

"That's so _stupid_!" Voice cracking, Mike threw his arms up and paced across the room to the dresser. Calling Mick stupid was a new one. But the older man only watched and listened, let him storm away. If he knew Mike at all, which he figured he did better than anyone the kid had known in his life, he knew that he was about to spill his guts whether he wanted to or not. It was troubling that this kind of scene had happened enough that it was predictable, and that, in the back of his mind, Mick wondered how many more times the two of them could survive it. Especially if Mike was throwing insults into the mix, now.

"Are you calling me stupid for loving you?" he asked, the first hints of frustration creeping into his voice.

For a moment, Mike's eyes widened, the _I Fucked Up_ expression. "N-no, that's not—I meant me, I'm stupid, I...fuck. He sank to the floor, leaning his back against the dresser drawers, balling his fists up in the baggy pooled fabric of his sleep shirt and mumbling something that sounded like "Why are you even marrying me..."

"I'm marrying you," Mick announced, "Because I want to be with you, Mike. Because I _love_ you, and that means I wanna help you."

"Yeah, and I don't fucking get it! Look at me, dude!" He gestured broadly, wildly, to himself. "I'm a fucking stupid loser! You should be marrying somebody else who has his stupid shit together!"

Now Mick was standing, and if he hadn't been so ready to pull his own hair out that his pale shoulders were starting to flush red, he might have laughed at how ridiculous the two of them looked arguing in their underwear. But nobody was laughing, and both of their voices were getting louder. "I don't want to be with somebody else! I wanna be with you, because I think you're better than anybody else, babe, I l—"

"Stop saying you love me!" Mike looked like he might be the first one to actually pull his hair out, tangling his trembling hands up in the still-damp mess. "You keep saying it, but like...just...I don't know, stop fucking with me!"

"Fucking with you? What, you think I'm _lying_ to you?!"

"No! It's—I just—"

"You're the one lying, man! You always tell me you're _fine_ and everything's _cool_ but that's _bullshit_ , and you know it, and it kills me! I would never lie to you, Mike. I don't know what you need me to do to prove that I love you but—"

" _Maybe I don't want you to fucking love me_!" Mike finally exploded, bringing the argument to a screeching halt, leaving both men shaking and panting and each staring at the other with a look that could break his heart. Mick thought maybe he just felt his own drop to the floor in pieces.

"...What?" He croaked, meeker than Mike had ever heard his voice. The sound set Mike's chest heaving, panicked tears clouding his vision.

"Oh, no, no no no no no, Mick, that's not what I meant, no—" He moved an inch closer on the carpet, and might have crawled all the way over to Mick's feet to beg for forgiveness if the way he looked down at him, like all the fondness and warmth that Mike had come to know from him had drained out through the hole he'd left in his chest, didn't freeze him in place.

"Then what _did_ you mean, babe?" Mick didn't wait long enough for Mike to answer before the last of his ability to restrain his voice gave way. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you like this, Mike? You really think I'm fucking with you, as if I _enjoy_ watching you do this shit to yourself? I just want to help you! Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can't want?!"

He stopped screaming when Mike lurched backward, scrambling and colliding with the dresser hard enough to knock it into the wall with a heavy thud. The force of the impact knocked a cup, one of the kitschy vintage ones that Mike had thrifted, off of the top of the dresser, sending it toppling down and bouncing off of Mike's skull with a hollow, plastic _thok_ and an "Ow!" that would have been hilarious if the context were different, if he didn't then curl into a tight ball on the floor, his face between the hairy knobs of his knees and his shoulders shuddering in silent sobs, terrified and frozen because Mick had screamed at him.

Immediately, the older man realized what he had done. _Oh, fuck, I just scared the living shit out of him._ Suddenly the bedroom felt very small, or maybe he felt very big, but whichever it was it left him feeling like some kind of beast looming over its cowering prey, and he hated it. He hated himself. The only thing Mick could ever promise to this boy—that he would never hurt him—had just dived out the window and splattered on the street.

Oh, Jesus, was this how Mike's father felt? Towering and screaming at him and leaving him petrified on the floor, the very thing that had made the kid so damaged in the first place? Uncomfortably cold sweat beaded up on his forehead. Mick could vomit knowing he had ever been anything like Bobby Barzetti.

And then, as if he didn't already feel like a monster, he heard Mike's wavering, muffled voice, apologizing to him:

"I'm sorry," he said, and just kept repeating it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." And what could Mick even say to him? He tried, opened his mouth to speak, but he'd done enough damage with words already, he thought. His hand came to close over his own mouth, like his body was shutting itself up before he made things any worse.

He wanted so badly to hold him, but for the first time in their relationship, he knew that wouldn't help. Instead he grabbed a pillow off the bed, forgot a blanket, and banished himself to the living room couch for the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

Crushing silence and rushing blood in Mike's ears threatened to squeeze him and compress him into a little hard ball of coal. Their bedroom was so big, so vast and empty without Mick in it, but it didn't really feel like their bedroom anymore anyway, because Mike was sure he'd just ruined everything. So much for worrying about silverware and catering...there was no way in hell Mick still wanted to marry him after...that.  
  
Crying and hyperventilating made his eyes hurt. Gut instinct told him to find Mick, to go and be held until he calmed down, but he knew he couldn't do that because Mick probably never wanted to hold him or touch him or see him again, and that only made him bawl harder into his knees. All he could do was sit and let the argument run through an endless loop in his head.   
  
_"I already said I'm fine."_  
  
_"You don't have to lie to me."_  
  
A sour twinge of anger bit at the heavy sorrow in his belly. Mike wasn't a liar. Who the hell was Mick to call him a liar?!   
  
_"You always tell me you're fine and everything's cool but that's bullshit!"_  
  
Okay...that was true. But that wasn't lying, Mike thought. You were supposed to keep your stupid self-hating angsty crap to yourself. He didn't do it to hurt him, he just...  
  
_"I don't wanna talk about it."_  
  
Yeah, that. All this shit in his head all the time, all his stupidity...that wasn't Mick's problem.   
  
_"But I wanna hear about it."_  
  
Why? Mick wasted so much time and energy trying to pry his issues out. Why in the fucking world did he want anything to do with a head case like Mike? Why would anyone?  
  
_"Because I love you."_  
  
Mike lifted his face out of his knees just enough to tug on his eyebrow ring. Little hitched breaths still shook him, but he'd cried out all the moisture in his body and had no more tears left. Sucking in snot and yanking his piercing hard enough to make his eye sting, he asked himself another question:  
  
Why was it so hard to believe Mick when he said that?  
  
_"I want to be with you, Mike."_  
  
Would Mick lie to him about that?  
  
_"I wanna be with you, because I think you're better than anybody else."_  
  
Picking at his fingernails, Mike thought hard about that. Better than anybody else. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that in his life.   
  
Maybe that was why he had such a hard time believing it.   
  
The cup from the dresser still sat next to him on the carpet. Luckily, it had been empty—the water or, more likely, Mountain Dew, or whatever sugary drink had been inside had evaporated days ago—when it fell on his head. He picked it up, turning it around in his hands, running his fingertips over the embossed image of a clown on the front. He sniffed again, remembering the day he bought it, how Mick had held his hand through the entire thrift store, eager to dig through the dusty bins of crap with him, and how he had hoisted the cup over his head like lost treasure when he dug it up out of a pile of old kitchenware because he knew Mike would love it, which he did, because Mick always knew when he would like something, because...  
  
Because Mick loved him, obviously.  
  
And Mike had been enough of a dick to call him stupid for that.   
  
_"Maybe I don't want you to fucking love me!"_  
  
The mental image of Mick's bemused, lopsided grin, watching him slap the cup down onto the thrift store counter, melted into the way he looked at him when he'd said that. Shocked and hurt, like Mike had just stabbed him in the gut. He might have hurt him less if he'd just done that instead, he thought.  
  
_"Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you like this?"_  
  
Oh, God, he fucked up. How much of an asshole was he, talking to Mick like that? The guy just wanted to help and Mike's thanks was to throw a tantrum at him, like he always did, and now here he was curled up on the floor like he was ten years old, like he did when Bobby used to come after him. He couldn't think of a greater insult to Mick than to even imagine that he ever would, or ever _could_ treat him like his father did.   
  
He wanted to dig straight through the carpet and down to the basement, scrape through the concrete floor under the sex sling and bury himself under the house forever.  
  
But what good would that do? Hiding again? The idea of facing Mick again made a knot in his stomach, but what was he going to do, run out the front door and never come back? The last time he tried that hadn't lasted very long, and he figured it wouldn't work this time, either, because he knew that the only thing stupider than telling himself Mick didn't love him was believing that he wasn't so madly in love right back that he could leave him.  
  
So, like tearing off a bandage, he forced himself to his feet, taking a deep breath to keep his exhausted, dehydrated body from toppling over as he left the bedroom, taking the cup with him. It needed to go in the sink anyway.  
  
The living room was silent and still. Mike took a quick look at the microwave clock as he passed through the kitchen. No wonder his limbs each felt like they weighed two tons—it was almost two A.M. by the time he'd peeled himself out of the bedroom. Or maybe his legs seemed so heavy because he was stalling, shuffling his feet across the tile and trying—failing—to think of what to say for himself.   
  
He turned the sink faucet on as quietly as possible. A gulp of water from the dusty cup did nothing to wash down the lump in his throat, but his overtired body did appreciate the small dose of sugar provided by the sticky soda residue at the bottom.  
  
Over the counter, Mime could just barely make out Mick's form on the couch in the living room, with just enough moonlight streaming in from the sliding glass doors to the backyard patio to cast a blueish tint on the room. Padding closer, he could see that he was on his side, with his face buried into the back cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around himself and the pillow he'd taken with him balled up under his head, stuffed between him and the armrest of the couch.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Mike whispered harshly to himself. He froze in place, watching to see if the sound of his toes cracking against the leg of the coffee table would stir the older man.  
  
Nothing. He must have been out cold.   
  
Well, that complicated things, but Mike couldn't say he wasn't a little relieved; this gave him more time to think of what to say. Buy now what?  
  
After standing there wringing his hands for a few seconds, he inched closer. Then he turned around, like a dog settling in for the night, and sat on the rug in front of the couch, his back to Mick.   
  
He sat there long enough that the cold tile floor started to suck up his body heat. Just when he began to shiver, and contemplate giving up to go sleep in the guest room, he heard shifting leather above him. Mick's warm hand rested gently on his shoulder, making him shudder.  
  
Rolling over, Mick stared down at the back of his head, his unstyled hair a sad mop of brown-black-blue in the darkness. His eyes were the same color, big and tragic and reflecting glints of moonlight as he looked up at him over his shoulder.   
  
"Were you asleep?" Mike asked.  
  
"Nah," Mick answered, cupping the side of his face. "Come here."   
  
Mike felt like maybe he should say something, apologize, before accepting the invitation, but he was already clambering onto the couch before he could consider it further. Mick adjusted to his presence, rolling onto his back and pulling Mike on top of him. The added weight and heat were welcome; he had been laying there without a blanket on cold, sticky leather for however-long.   
  
It was tempting for Mike to just close his eyes and let the sound of the heartbeat against his ear carry him off to sleep, but he didn't think he would ever be able to sleep again if he didn't apologize now.   
  
His voice sounded like sandpaper. "I'm sorry," he mumbled into Mick's chest.  
  
Mick waited a moment to answer. "You don't have to be," he finally said, stroking the small of Mike's back.  
  
"No, like..." his puffy beard tickled Mick's bare skin as he rested his chin there to gaze up at him. "I was a total dickbag to you."  
  
A melancholy kind of smirk spread across Mick's lips. "I shouldn't have yelled at you, though."  
  
"I deserved it," Mike sighed back, leaning his head into the fingers that raked gingerly through his hair.   
  
God, Mick thought, this kid was gonna kill him with those puppydog eyes. "Mike, you _never_ deserve to be screamed at."  
  
"I'm just...really sorry I told you—" The rest of the sentence was muffled as he sniffled and laid his face flat on Mick's chest. "That I don't want you to love me."  
  
"Well, I'm really sorry for yellin' at you." Groaning, Mick covered his own eyes with a forearm. "I probably sounded like your fuckin' dad."  
  
Mike went quiet for a long time, and Mick started to wonder if maybe he was thinking _Hey, you know what? You're right! I'm not taking that shit from you, old man! Kiss me and my sweet ass goodbye!_  
  
And if that was to be the case, well, Mick would consider it justified. Mike thought he deserved to be screamed at, but Mick thought he deserved death by firing squad for doing it.   
  
After an agonizing pause, Mike finally brought his arms up to cross over Mick's body, resting his chin on them. The corner of his mouth lifted into a weak little grin. "My dad never told me he loved me."  
  
It was too much for Mick to resist sitting up and taking him with him, pulling him into the tightest hug he'd ever given. The smaller man wrapped his whole self around him and clung there on pure instinct, giving and receiving more apologies and understanding through the embrace than the two could have exchanged in an hour of conversation, until their combined body heat had them forgetting how cold the living room was at night.   
  
The steady rhythm of their combined breathing and the warm, satisfying squeeze left Mike nodding off into the crook of Mick's neck. "We should go to bed," he whispered.   
  
"Hmm?" Mick had apparently been falling asleep as well.  
  
"Let's go to bed, babe," he repeated. Nodding, Mick kissed his forehead before following him off of the couch, tucking the pillow under his arm and letting himself be led down the hall.


End file.
